Webb Street was only a few blocks away down Bermondsey Street; Tom had, indeed, known the location. He drew the carriage to the curb in the larger street, just past the corner with Webb Street.

Cleo waited for Michael to hand her down. Once on the narrow pavement, she straightened her skirts, then looked around. The area was solidly working class, the buildings an eclectic mix of shops, small factories, and row houses. From the smell in the air, the leather market with its associated tanneries wasn’t far away.

She turned and looked down Webb Street. Narrow and cobbled, the street curved west. Michael took her arm, and they started along it, scanning the houses. The southern side of the street was occupied by a long row of workers’ terrace houses, each no more than twelve feet wide, built cheek by jowl with their front doors opening directly onto the cobbles. They found O’Toole’s door midway along the street.

Michael knocked on the panel. Halting beside him, Cleo noted the gravity of his expression. Neither he nor she held out much hope for O’Toole, but they had to check. Had to know.

Light footsteps approached. A bolt grated as it was slid aside, then the door opened, just a little way. A woman of similar age to Cleo looked out. Pale and wan, through red-rimmed eyes, she stared at them. “Yes?”

The fearful expectation carried in that one word was enough to tell them that O’Toole hadn’t returned home.

Cleo stepped forward, drawing the woman’s gaze. “Good morning. Are you Mrs. O’Toole?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Something pushed against the woman’s side, and she shifted, releasing her hold on the door. It swung wider, revealing a small boy who had flung himself against his mother’s legs. Clutching her skirts, he looked up at Cleo and Michael with big, wide eyes.

Cleo smiled at the boy, then raised her gaze once more to Mrs. O’Toole’s face. “We’ve just been to the warehouse, and we’re trying to find out what’s happened to Mr. O’Toole. I take it he’s still missing?”

Mrs. O’Toole nodded, her anxiety easy to read. “I told Henry—the man Mr. Ellis at the warehouse sent to ask. Eddie didn’t come home last Wednesday. Normally, he’d be home to tuck Joe here into bed, but…he didn’t come back.” The woman’s gaze had dropped to the boy. With one hand, she smoothed his hair. “I know something’s happened.” Her voice had lowered; it sounded raw. “Eddie wouldn’t not come home to me and the young ones—he’s not that sort of man.”

Cleo’s heart contracted. O’Toole had been missing for five days; there was little likelihood of him turning up hale and whole, and Mrs. O’Toole knew it. She was trying to manage—to cling to normality for her children. Cleo glanced at Michael.

His voice gentle, he asked, “Mrs. O’Toole, did Eddie ever mention working for someone else on the side?”

Mrs. O’Toole blinked. She raised her eyes to Michael’s face, her expression puzzled. “No. He never said anything about working anywhere but at the warehouse.”

Michael felt as if he was treading on eggshells, but he had to ask. “I don’t know if this has any connection—and it certainly wouldn’t reflect in any negative way on Mr. O’Toole—but it might give us some idea of where else we might seek information. Was Mr. O’Toole ever involved with—or was he a sympathizer of—the Young Irelanders? We noticed his name is Irish.”

Mrs. O’Toole frowned as if she was thinking. “Yes, Eddie’s Irish. And he does talk sometimes about the movement and the government and all that, but as far as I know, it’s never been anything more—just talk.” She focused on Michael’s face. “If it was one of my brothers or most other men, I’d say you should talk to his drinking mates, but Eddie isn’t a big drinker—just the odd one on a holiday or in celebration. Most of his time outside work he spends here with us.” She paused, then added, her voice low, “But there are a few old mates of his—Irish from the old days. They occasionally meet up, but I’ve never met any of them. I don’t know who they are—well, other than that two are called Mick and one’s a Pat.” Her lips lifted in a sorrowful smile. “That’s not much help.”

“It might be more help than you know.” Michael inclined his head. “Thank you for speaking with us.”

“Here.” Unobtrusively, Cleo had opened her reticule and found several shillings among the pencil ends and pins. She held them out. “For your time.”

Mrs. O’Toole stiffened, but her eyes had locked on the shiny coins.

Then, from behind her, came a thin, reedy wail; she had a baby as well as the young boy.

Michael searched in his coat pocket, fished out a guinea, reached out and took the coins from Cleo’s fingers, and held out the combined sum. He met Mrs. O’Toole’s eyes. “Please, take them. Although I can’t explain, you have helped us, and this is little enough in return. Whatever your resources, this will help until things sort themselves out.”

At first hesitantly, then with greater determination, Mrs. O’Toole reached out and accepted the coins. “Thank you.” Her voice was gruff.

She slipped the coins into her apron pocket, then gently pushed the boy inside, stepped back, and reached for the door.

Michael inclined his head in farewell, and Cleo murmured, “Good luck.”

They were about to turn away when Mrs. O’Toole gripped the door and said, “If you find out anything…”

Michael met her eyes and nodded. “If we learn anything about what has befallen your husband, we’ll make sure you’re told.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. O’Toole whispered, then she closed the door.

Michael took Cleo’s arm, and they set out at a brisk pace for the carriage.

A few seconds later, Cleo said, “I can’t imagine what her life will now be like—the struggle it will become.”

“Neither can I.” Michael glanced at her face, saw the open concern and also the rapid calculation. “But we can’t rescue everyone.”

Slowly, she nodded. “No—but I can do something about rescuing her, and the little boy and the baby. I can ask around to see if any of our acquaintance have a place for a woman with two young children. She spoke well—she could easily be a housekeeper or a companion. Especially if she was willing to move to the country—better for her and for the children as well.” As they neared the carriage, Cleo raised her head and drew in a deep breath. “I believe we should do all we can to…mitigate the impact on the innocents arising out of this dastardly plot. We might not be able to rescue everyone, and we can’t erase the pain, but making bad better is something we can and should do.”

Michael saw no reason to argue. “I agree we should do whatever we can.” They reached the carriage, and he opened the door. He met Cleo’s now distinctly militant gaze. “I’ll send O’Toole’s name and address to Scotland Yard. I’ll suggest they get a description from the warehouse in case his body turns up in their morgues.”

She nodded crisply and decisively. “Beyond that, our way forward is obvious—we need to push on and stop this plot. And bring to justice whoever is behind it and all the misery it has caused.” She paused, then added, “When it comes down to it, exposing the perpetrators and seeing justice done is the only way we can avenge all those they’ve killed—O’Toole, Doolan, Johnny Dibney, and the Boynes, too.”

“Indeed.” His jaw setting, Michael helped her into the carriage.

---

They repaired to a coffee house on the Strand to appease their appetites and review all they’d learned. All they’d uncovered.

Any excitement over finally locating the barrels of gunpowder had been effectively doused by their concerns for the missing O’Toole. But as they sat in a corner booth and consumed an excellent fish stew, gradually, a sense of quiet triumph, of achievement, rose and eased their mood.

“I almost can’t believe we were right, and the barrels were just sitting there, under that tarpaulin, waiting to be found.” Michael pushed aside his empty plate and reached for his coffee cup.

Cleo had already finished her meal. She’d been sitting, sipping delicately at the rich brew and, he feared, thinking too much while waiting for him to clean his plate.

“Indeed.” Over the rim of her cup, she met his eyes. “We should certainly take a moment to pat ourselves on the back, but now we have…what comes next? Should we organize for the barrels to be seized or, perhaps, replace the gunpowder with something else?”

He arched his brows. “That’s not a bad idea.” He considered, then amended, “Actually, that’s a brilliant idea if we could manage it without raising any suspicions of the barrels having been tampered with.” He paused, then went on, “Drake was very clear—insistent, in fact—that if we found the barrels, we were to leave them in situ, exactly as we found them, essentially as bait to trap whoever comes for them.”

“I can see his point,” Cleo said. “We all want to catch these villains. But replacing the gunpowder with something of similar weight—a mixture of sand and other powders, perhaps—would eliminate the risk posed by the gunpowder, yet still allow the barrels to be used as a lure.”

Michael frowned. He turned his cup between his hands as he weighed the various possibilities. “While I would prefer to replace the gunpowder, that will be difficult to do without Drake’s authority, and I hesitate to tamper with the barrels’ contents without him knowing.” He met Cleo’s eyes and grimaced. “He might appear to share all with us, his irregular recruits, but there are always issues he plays close to his chest. There might be some reason we know nothing about that makes replacing the gunpowder a risk.” He shrugged. “Albeit a risk of a different sort.”

“Hmm.” Cleo didn’t look impressed, although Michael suspected her attitude was directed not at him but at Drake. “So we just sit and watch the barrels and wait?”

Lowering his cup, Michael nodded. He swallowed his mouthful of coffee and hastened to add, “And that’s already in hand. My men are stationed all around Morgan’s Lane.”

She frowned. “I didn’t spot any of them—are you sure they’re in place?”

“Quite sure. But they can’t watch from in the lane itself—precisely because, as you just pointed out, they would be spotted. If the barrels are to act as bait, then whoever comes to fetch them mustn’t see the watchers. We can’t afford to scare the villains—or their pawns—off.” He hesitated, but if it helped to keep her away from Morgan’s Lane… “The upshot is that we have to watch the area rather than the specific spot. I have men stationed in Tooley Street, and also…” Post by post, he described the cordon he’d placed around the warren surrounding Morgan’s Lane. “The end result is that whoever comes for those barrels won’t be able to take them anywhere without being seen and followed.”

She was still frowning, but not as deeply; she now knew enough of the area to appreciate his strategy.

He wanted—very much wanted—to lay down the law and forbid her to return to Morgan’s Lane, but he was well aware that any such attempt could, and most likely would, prove entirely counterproductive. He plowed on, “Now we know the barrels are there, I’ll send word to my men—the confirmation that the ten barrels are, indeed, in Shepherd’s warehouse will ensure that my army of watchers stay alert.” He paused, then continued, “And as you so cleverly placed a hold on the barrels, the warehouse staff won’t let them be removed during the working day. That will make things easier—we only need to maintain a strict watch during the hours in which the warehouse is shut.”

“And the lane more or less deserted.” Cleo met his eyes. “Did you notice that, although the streets around are packed with lodging houses and the like, and taverns, too, none of those fronted onto the lane? There weren’t even any shops with living quarters above.”

He nodded. “From our villains’ point of view, a warehouse in Morgan’s Lane really is the perfect place to store their barrels. Assuming they plan to remove their hoard at night, there’s no chance of someone glancing out of a window and seeing them.”

He looked across the table at her—and was visited by a vision of her in her boy’s garb, skulking around Morgan’s Lane in the dark. The thought shook him. Ruthlessly keeping his expression impassive, he set down his cup and slid along the seat. “Come on—let’s go and see if Drake’s back. If he is, we should report.”

And if Drake was back, Michael would ensure Drake exerted some of his undoubted authority and forbade Cleo to lurk about in dark lanes. Either that or performed one of his amazing feats of manipulation to the same end. Or at the very least, came up with some way to distract her.

Blissfully unaware of his thoughts, Cleo nodded, collected her reticule and gloves, and rose.

---

“Unfortunately not, my lord.” Hamilton, the Wolverstone House butler, continued imperturbably, “The marquess has yet to return, although he is expected soon.”

“Soon, when?” Cleo inquired, not the least bit cowed by Hamilton’s majesty.

Hamilton eyed her and decided it would be politic to reply. “We expect to see him within the next twelve or so hours, miss.”

Cleo nodded. “In that case, I expect we’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Hamilton.” Taking Cleo’s arm, Michael steered her out of the Wolverstone House front door.

Hamilton shut the door quietly behind them.

They halted on the porch. It was the middle of the afternoon. Michael cast a sidelong glance at his partner’s face; she was thinking too hard again. “There’s nothing more we can accomplish at the moment. Would you like me to drive you to your office?”

She considered, then shook her head. “No. There’s not enough time left in the day to accomplish anything worthwhile.”

“Clarges Street, then.” Michael steered her down the steps to where Tom had the carriage waiting; he had things to do—men to see and brief, and deployments to review—but she didn’t need to be involved in that.

They settled side by side in the carriage, and it moved off, into the traffic circling the park in the center of Grosvenor Square. The trip to Clarges Street wouldn’t take long; Michael was aware he needed to make every moment count—in the right way.

He looked toward the window as if idly watching the façades slip past. “I’ve been revisiting what Drake said about the way this plot is being run, and in light of that, his prediction that the villains will be in no hurry to reclaim the barrels seems sound.” As far as it went. As if thinking aloud, he went on, “He suggested we might well have a week’s gap between the end of the first stage—the barrels arriving in London—and the beginning of the next, when presumably the barrels will be collected.” At the outside.

He skated over that and rolled on, “If we accept that as the most likely scenario—the one Drake believes will eventuate”—who knows what Drake believes?—“then as the barrels were delivered on Wednesday, there’s no reason to suppose they’ll be moved tonight and possibly not even tomorrow night.”

His partner arched her brows. After a moment, she said, “I suppose that’s true.”

Michael stretched out his legs and stared at the toes of his boots. “Of course, I’ll keep my men in place, maintaining their surveillance.” To further propagate the appearance of sharing all, he added, “I’ll drop by later in the evening to check that all’s well, but I don’t anticipate seeing any action.” He managed a faintly disaffected snort. “And as Drake will be home tomorrow, I daresay he’ll take over, and we can leave the rest of this mission to him. If he behaves as he usually does, we’ll have no choice—he’s something of an autocratic dictator.” He was perfectly willing to slander Drake in a good cause; indeed, given that cause, he doubted Drake would mind.

He wondered if he should further stress the lack of need for her to concern herself about the barrels that night, but decided that would be over-gilding his argument. The more he pressed, the more he risked provoking her resistance. Ladies, he’d long ago learned, possessed a contrary and powerful reactive streak.

Cleo swayed as the carriage took the turn into Curzon Street. The brush of Michael’s shoulder against hers brought a sense of comforting reassurance. She’d heard everything he’d said, had taken it in, but her mind had been whirling with thoughts, not of the barrels but of the bodies. Of the people the villains seemed to have, with chilling cold-bloodedness, left strewn, dead, in their wake. And there was not only the dead to weigh in Justice’s scale, but also those left behind—the potential disaster visited on Mrs. O’Toole, having to fend for and bring up her children alone. The innocents so carelessly harmed along the way.

What on earth could be worth doing so much damage to so many?

Or didn’t the villains care?

She suspected it was the latter. And her commitment to seeing the blackguards brought to book hardened to granite.

“I assume you would like to accompany me when I report to Drake tomorrow?”

Michael’s question jerked her back to the real world—to the carriage slowing outside her home.

“Yes.” She glanced out of the window, then turned to him and frowned. “Of course.”

His smile suggested he’d realized she’d been woolgathering. He reached to open the carriage door. “I’ll come for you at eleven. We’ll call on Drake and inform him we’ve exceeded his wildest expectations and located the barrels. Thereafter, the next steps will be his to define.”

She nodded, waited for him to descend, then allowed him to help her to the pavement. He walked her to the door, waited until Morris opened it, then very correctly took his leave of her, bowing over her hand.

“Until eleven tomorrow.” He released her and, with a smiling salute, turned and went down the steps to the carriage.

Cleo retreated into the front hall. She turned to the mirror and untied her bonnet. She heard the rattle of wheels as the carriage pulled away, then Morris shut the door.

“Your cloak, miss?”

“Please.” Cleo let Morris lift the weight of the cloak from her shoulders.

“Will you be home for dinner, miss?”

“Yes. It’ll just be me tonight.” As it often was. She started up the stairs, idly swinging her bonnet by its ribbons, conscious that the quietness of the house—the certainty that she was alone and free of the company of all other members of her family—which had previously seemed such a boon, now felt…uninspiring. Unenlivening. There would be no reason for her to exercise her wits over the dinner table tonight. Instead of the relief she had previously felt over that situation, a sense of disaffected boredom hovered.

Her steps slowed as she pondered that.

She reached the half landing, turned to ascend the next flight, but then her feet halted, and she stared unseeing at the stairwell wall as her mind—having moved on to the question of what Michael would be doing tonight—replayed his comments on that subject.

He would be going to Morgan’s Lane later, even though he believed—as did Winchelsea—that the barrels were unlikely to be moved that night.

She understood his and Winchelsea’s reasoning; although she didn’t know enough about how plots like this were conducted to evaluate their thinking, she was prepared to trust in their judgment. She could see no reason not to accept Michael’s assessment on that score.

But…

He’d told her of the disposition of his men, and now that he had, she recalled enough from her visits to the area to appreciate his strategy. However, if he did “drop by” as he’d said he would, then he would secrete himself in the same shadowy alcove halfway down the lane. It was the only possible hiding place in the lane—at least for a man of his size.

She paused to consider the notion that he might simply check with his men as they maintained their cordon around the area and then depart for some club or the theater or some soiree…and dismissed it. Over the last days, she’d seen enough of the real Lord Michael Cynster, the man behind the reputation, to be absolutely certain that, when he reached Morgan’s Lane, he would slip through the shadows and take up the only position from which anyone could be certain of getting a good look at whoever came to retrieve the barrels.

What if, contrary to all expectations, the villains came to fetch the barrels tonight?

Michael would be there, hidden in the alcove before the single door; he would be able to see anyone who approached the warehouse gates, and once the gates were open, he would be able to see anyone moving in the yard before the warehouse. He would see it all.

He would watch them leave…but what if he, or his men, unversed as they all were in the nuances of the commercial world, missed some vital clue? And because of that, lost the barrels’ trail?

They’d worked hard to locate those barrels, and following them was the only avenue that might lead to the villains behind the plot in time to stop the gunpowder being used.

And they hadn’t yet had a chance to replace the gunpowder.

Premonition didn’t just tickle her nape; it rose and swamped her.

The barrels would be collected tonight; regardless of any oh-so-rational arguments to the contrary, she was suddenly immutably convinced that was so.

Then she thought of Michael, alone in the lane, very possibly the only one of the watchers who might get a clear view of any of the villains’ faces.

And she thought of the villains who had so callously murdered everyone who might identify them.

She thought of the men who would come to fetch the barrels—men who had, to that point, proved so very cautious and canny. She tried to imagine being in their shoes.

They would check the lane, wouldn’t they? As Michael had noted, Morgan’s Lane might have been chosen because it contained the right sort of warehouse to temporarily hide the barrels, but it was also perfect in the sense that no room where people might be at night overlooked the lane.

If the villains thought to glance around to make sure that no one had seen them—not well enough to be any threat—they would see that alcove.

They might not realize anyone was in it, but if they were as careful and cautious as they had thus far proved to be, they would check.

And alone in the shadowed space, Michael would be trapped. The only one of his men who might see the villains approaching his hiding place would be the man he’d said would be stationed at the head of the lane—far too far away to be able to help Michael.

If the villains found Michael and realized he’d seen them, that he’d been watching them, for why else would he be there…

They’d already killed other aristocrats. Being a duke’s son wouldn’t save Michael.

But having someone else around might. Someone strolling in the lane, someone no one—Michael or the villains—would think twice about. Someone the villains wouldn’t see as any threat. Someone slight enough to slip into the two smaller shadowed nooks she’d noticed.

Premonition transformed into compulsion.

Her chin firming, determination welling, Cleo refocused on the stairs and continued her upward climb.

---

After returning Cleo to her home, Michael had directed Tom to drive straight to the mews behind St. Ives House. Consequently, Michael entered the mansion via the rear garden and the kitchen door.

He paused by the side table in the front hall to pick up several envelopes addressed to him—invitations by the look of them. On hearing a door open, he glanced around and saw Crewe coming out of the library, a tray balanced on one palm.

Michael had spent the drive home contemplating his options regarding one over-adventurous lady. Impulse prompted, and he asked, “Is my father in?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the duchess?”

“I believe Her Grace is closeted upstairs with her modiste.”

Perfect. “Thank you, Crewe.” Pocketing the invitations, Michael crossed to the library door. He opened it and went in.

Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, sat behind the massive desk. He looked up as Michael shut the door and smiled affably. “We’d wondered where you’d got to. Sebastian said you were helping Drake with this latest mission.”

Michael strolled across the room. “It’s been…absorbing, to say the least.”

His father watched with amused interest as, on reaching the desk, Michael subsided into one of the twin armchairs facing the mahogany expanse. When he failed to launch into speech, His Grace arched a black brow. “Can I help you with something?”

Michael met his sire’s pale-green eyes. “As it happens, I hope you can.”

When his father simply waited, Michael cudgeled his brains for the right words, then mentally threw his hands in the air and stated, “In order to locate some barrels Drake—and Sebastian and Antonia before that—have been searching for, I enlisted the aid of Miss Cleome Hendon.”

His father’s brows rose—both of them. “Jack and Kit Hendon’s daughter?”

His lips firming, Michael nodded. “That’s her. I needed her help, and there was no viable alternative, but in return, she insisted on…”

The essential elements of his dilemma—at least as he saw it—tumbled from his lips.

His father listened; after a time, he set down the letter knife he’d been wielding and sat back in his admiral’s chair, the better to take in Michael’s plaint.

“So, you see”—Michael raked his fingers through his hair—“I can’t deny that she’s fulfilled her part of the bargain, and although I could fall back on the letter of our agreement and insist she no longer actively participates in any action, knowing how much she longs for adventure—and I don’t think it’s only that, but that she wants to be involved in this sort of mission, contributing to something important and meaningful—then…” A moment passed, then he looked up and met his father’s eyes. “I feel as if I’m skewered on the horns of a dilemma. I don’t want to shut her out of things—I want to give her what she wants. But even more, I need to ensure that she’s safe, and she won’t be if she continues to involve herself in this mission.”

His expression impassive, as it usually was, his father studied him for several seconds, then said, “And…”

Confused, he frowned. “And what?”

“And…why do you want to please her? To give her everything she wants? I assume that’s what you’re really saying.”

He felt faint color seep into his cheeks. He held his father’s gaze…but he knew he wasn’t hiding anything from those far-too-perceptive eyes. He drew in a breath, felt it fill his chest, then forced himself to state, “I want to please her because I think she’s the one for me, and when this is over—and assuming she’s still speaking to me—then I intend to pursue her and, eventually, ask her to be my wife.”

His father’s lips slowly curved into a smile. “Excellent. I’m relieved to hear you’ve worked that much out.”

He humphed. “Much good will it do me.”

“Let’s see if I can help.” His father’s gaze remained steady on Michael’s face. “From what you’ve said and from what I know of her family, I take it Miss Hendon—”

“Cleo.”

His father inclined his head. “Cleo is, in general parlance, a lady one might describe as being her own woman.”

Michael nodded. “Very much so.”

“And she knows where the barrels are?”

“She was instrumental in locating them.”

“In that case, even if you intervene and—unwisely, I’m sure you’ll agree—attempt to rein her in, how do you envisage preventing her from turning up and assisting with the surveillance?” Devil paused for only a second before going on, “The critical questions in such matters are these. First, is it in your power to stop her doing whatever she wishes? And second, regardless of whether you can, regardless of whatever you feel, is it in her best interests to do so?”

Silence lengthened as Michael digested that.

Eventually, his father continued, “When it comes to shielding them, as we feel compelled to, on some occasions, in some circumstances, our role becomes a matter of simply doing the best you can, coping in whatever way you can, protecting her however you can—meeting the challenge as well as you can—rather than attempting to constrain her.” He paused, then, his deep voice lower, said, “You have to allow her the freedom to choose and act on her choice, because ultimately, you want her to choose you and to act on that choice.”

Michael sat and let that wisdom sink in, then he heaved a huge sigh. He met his father’s eyes and grimaced. “So it’s as I thought.” He pushed to his feet. “I was starting to fear that was the case.”

His father grinned. With a chuckle, he waved Michael away. “Go and face your music. And good luck.”

Michael paused; meeting his father’s eyes, he inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Devil smiled. “My pleasure.”

With a resigned salute, Michael left the room.